Hurry Up and Get in the Car!!! Oh Shit!

So this morning I am running my kids to day camp. Which is a nice way to say that the local Parks and Rec will take your kids, for $50 a week and provide fun child care. You know, so you can work and hopefully make more than the $50 it costs to send them there.

I had an interview at my house in an hour, so the morning was filled with screams of “pick up your stuff” and “if you don’t remember your bathing suit – YOU WON’T BE SWIMMING!”. You know, cherished morning stuff.

As I pull the car out of the driveway I look down and see I forgot to change my shoes. I have on a lovely summer paisley print dress with pink and yellows. So lovely.

And my shoes? Enormous zebra print orthopedic shoes. Well, no matter I think. I have to get them to camp.

So I march them in, and hold myself high amongst the other mothers, some wearing cute kahki pants and delicate flip flops, one mother wearing a sex secretary skirt and 5 inch heels. But I hold myself like I look amazing. Cuz that’s how I try to roll in my orthopedic shoes.

I wonder why one of the mother’s that I was trying to chat up kept looking at my lovely and voluptuous bosom. Hmm . . .

Well, I get home and realize the rather “orthopedic” bra that I chose was completely exposed in the dress. Like the neckline of the dress was below the cups.

Old lady bra, ridiculous shoes. Lovely interview dress.

I plan to look amazing when I go back for the 3 pm pick up! And by amazing I mean my bra won’t show and I’m leaving the zebra comfy shoes at home.

Sleep away Camp. This one’s for Mommy

My kids are 10, Blondie and 7, Glowie. I have been dying for a break from them for about . . . 10 years. We’ve had a weekend away here and there, but never a week.

A week without my children is the stuff my sweet dreams are made of!

So I call around and find a sleepaway camp that will take 7 year olds along with our 10 year old. And off we go, in May, to spend a day there, with the kids, to check it out.

Ah, a little piece of yummy in the mountains. A lake, ATV’s, paintball, riflery, archery, roller blading, water skiing, ropes courses, well the list goes on. And on – cuz it’s that kind of place. (I believe they refer to it as HEAVEN!)

On the day of the orientation Glowie asks me if we could just leave her right then. Forget the rest of first grade – she was READY for camp now!

So we cancel our family trip to San Diego and start the enrollment process. You know: the forms, the questions, the medical documentation. And I do all of it without a complaint. Cuz I’m getting a flipping week off!!!

The big day comes, the duffel bags are packed, the checklists have been checked and rechecked (no reason not to take my hyper-anal behavior at home and apply it to camp). Everyone is in the car.

For once, we let Glowie just chat and chat and chat about all the fun she’s going to have, the friends she’s going to make, how late she is going to stay up, and the freedom she is going to have. (You just keep talking Baby – cuz Mama is counting down to her freedom too!)

Blondie is quiet, cuz she is shy and this is harder for her.

In we sweep: there is music playing and dozens and dozens of excited and amazing camp counselors greeting us and ushering us through the process.

We walk them down to the lake, set them up for some lunch, meet some more kids and counselors.

Ah, Blondie really doesn’t want us to go. Glowie however flips her hand up at me and says: Mom – shoo! Goodbye.

I’ve waited 10 years for this day. As we walk back up to the car (everything is hills in this camp – get me out of here!) I keep sneaking peeks back. Glowie is holding court and Blondie is holding her head down.

I am sick. Sick I tell you, to leave my kids at camp.

We drive away while I weep (not so gently).

And I spend the rest of the afternoon of my “vacation” with an incredible sick feeling in my stomach. Is this what the empty nest feels like? Cuz I’m miserable. If I feel like this for the whole week, it is going to suck.

And I’m totally rethinking that whole “commitment” to college thing. Maybe they should just stay home.

Then I have the first of many, many naps. Then I have the first of (well) many, many cocktails.

Then I log onto the camp website and see the pictures of them, laughing, eyes sparkling, having so much fun.

And I feel better. Now THIS is the vacation I dreamed about.

Where is fucking Mary Poppins when you need her?

Look, I’m old, I’m tired. I need a nanny. Cuz as you know, the parenting thing is way harder than I thought. Meaning, without help, I would be dead. Period.

I thought a nanny was going to fix everything. I was expecting sing-alongs and tea.

But what the hell? Who knew the goddamed nanny thing was going to be as much work as the kids? Where is the justice in that, I ask you?

Ever since Blondie was born, we’ve had a revolving door of Nannies, Baby.

How can it be that bad? Okay the first one was the most invasive person I have ever met. If Blondie (who at that time was really “Baldy”) ever started to drift off to sleep, she would wake her up. Like seriously. She needed the baby’s attention 24/7.

She would even call at night to see if we had fed the dog. Okay, we hadn’t yet, but not the point People, not the point.

We hired a lot of sweet (I’m talking honey- touched virgins) girls from the local Baptist College. That worked well until we swilled some booze or accidentally let a “fuck” or a “pussy” slip out. (You’d be amazed at how frequently those words do just tumble from our vodka coated lips.)

They came and they went in their ankle-length denim skirts and long straight hair. (I felt so at home when Big Love finally aired. Cuz I’d been living there Baby.)

Next through the revolving door, came the girl who stole my shoes. (Fucker!) Then there was the girl that was so involved planning her wedding that she forgot to take care of the kid. (Hey Babysitter Chick – you are supposed to be here, so I can ignore the kid.) There was the girl that we loved who never showed up again.

There was the English lady who used to call out in a shrill panic: “Girls, Girls please don’t bicker.” Ya, cuz THAT worked.

There was the older lady that had the most frightening smoker’s cough ever.

Now don’t get me wrong, we had some Sweet spots. There was Sara, who was 17 and a liar. No really, she lied. She told us she was going to go to the local Community College when she really had a full ride scholarship to Mount Holyoke. She was a beautiful young feminist who always believed I was the coolest person ever. I’m shallow in that a 17- year old can totally define my sense of self and well-being. (Hey, she’s 25 now, and still feeding my needy side!)

There was Tee, who hung in there with us for 4 years. She started out in black hoodies tied up over her face, making her a rather frightening presence at the elementary school. But hey, she poured love and salty/olive oil chicken into our gullets and spoiled the shit out of us. We love her sweet, unhoodie-covered face to this day.

But, the one that REALLY blew our minds, was Emily, who showed me the incredible wisdom of hiring someone 21 years of age who could run out and BUY US VODKA!

And now we have @PS_Nanny. I’d love to say something smartie pants about her, but I know she’s going to read this. And maybe even leave a comment if I work this just right.

Why did we hire her? One of the first things she ever said to me was: “You don’t scare me”. And given the fact that she declared this from her 6 ft tall height sorta scared ME. (In a hot, kinda way.)

I keep waiting for her to run through that revolving door onto the street. I try so hard not to throw myself to the ground and hold onto her leg when she walks out the door at night.

I tell my daughters that the Nanny isn’t here for them. The Nanny is here for me. Mama has needs. (Well, there is the whole “working” thing, but I try and keep that to a bare minimum.) Needs to eat, needs to never actually set foot on a soccer field for soccer practice, needs for special ballet tights which requires schlepping out to another zip code.

She’s the chick that doesn’t yell at them (cuz they get enough of that with me), makes sure everyone is eating healthy snacks (this may actually be a downside for me) and stands in my office with her arms folded if I don’t get in the shower in time to get to an appointment.

We are in our glory days right now. No one in our family needs a diaper. Not the kids, not me. (Though my Twitter Addiction may be driving a need to buy Depends. Nanny! Make a note.)

And the best part about @PS_Nanny is, that though she may not have an umbrella, she doesn’t mind running to the store for Vodka and Cheetos. #score #keeper

Art Show Baby!!!

I’m famous. Well, at least I was in my own mind.

But now I have outside verification. My name appeared in our local paper!!!

As an ARTIST! #score

Now look, I’ve been in a mosaic art studio for, I don’t know, a couple of years. It’s become a religion, like sacramental blood in my veins. (Especially the part where we close studio and have wine on Friday nights. This ritual is actually called Vespers.) #awesome

At this point, everyone is getting ready for an Art Show at Mexican Restaurant.

And I’m having a breakdown. Cuz this is the time of year when the Mommy duties go way up and studio drops to Number 782 on my To Do list.

Oh, I want to be part of. And I eat at this fricking restaurant EVERY Monday night. How will I swallow the yummy food with all the bitter bile, as I dine amongst my colleagues truly awesome art pieces?

So I suck it up.

I have no ideas. And every else has taken the cool stuff. You know, like Margaritas and Tacos!

So I announce I’m going to do a Heart. (Our heart really does reside in this little place.) Oops. “Does not meet the theme of the show.” #dammit

Thank God, one of the artists abandoned her chili pepper piece. Hallelujah! A concept I can run with.

So I do Chili Peppers on a Heart. (Cuz I’m stubborn like that, when I’m not wallowing in bitterness.)

But I make it small. Like 9 inches. Cuz I have one week.

So I lock my kids in another room, allow them extraordinary access to Disney Channel and the Wii and I crank.

And I talk to myself. “It doesn’t have to be perfect. Just get it done. Or you will be LEFT OUT.”

The words LEFT OUT always invoke some kind of awful fear in me. But it is enough to keep me moving.

And you know, I am nothing without a village. @Pottery45Girl, Jennifer my teacher helped me saw the heart background; @JerryLStudio suggested I lay the chili peppers overlapping to create a heart within a heart, @SocialMosaics grouted it for me.

Then everybody from the studio took a whole night to hang all the pieces. (And don’t forget the doctor who prescribes my xanax. A very important member of my village.)

And clearly you have achieved the Big Time when the local paper not only writes about the show, but runs a picture of your piece! Check it out.

This makes me famous, right? #pleasepleaseplease


http://www.mydesert.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=20106170352

I'm Committed

This morning I woke up with a singular purpose. I commit to getting my To Do List done for the day.

First, however, I check Twitter. Then I check some more. Then I hope someone will respond to what I thought was a brilliant tweet, so I keep checking.

Then I think, wow, I really need to write a blog post. I’ll start that after I check Twitter again, cuz dammit, that Tweet was funny.

And now I need to tackle the To Do list. But I can’t actually find the list. I dig under three Cheetos bags, a dog leash, a Camp Trip Release form (shit, that was supposed to go out yesterday) and finally, triumphantly find the list. It has orange fingerprints on it and is much longer that I remember.

I really need to redo this. I should have columns sorting these tasks between high priority and low priority (and the column for the shit, that let’s be real, I am never going to fucking do), emails, calls, proposals etc.

Then I check Twitter again. And then I check to see if anyone posted a comment on my Blog. But I’m not posting a lot to my blog, cuz, uh, duh – I have a lot of things on my To Do List.

You know what. I feel tired. I’ll hit this hard -- tomorrow. I’ll just crank through it all then. That’s the ticket. I’ll write a blog, redo the list, work on the tasks. Tomorrow is the day. The Golden Day. I’ll get up early.

Cuz now I need to check Twitter. Cuz dammit, that Tweet was Golden!

Driving In The Fog

So we decided to head up to the mountains over the three-day weekend. We left Palm Springs on a Thursday night. No big deal, right?

Sunny skies, kinda warm out, beautiful glow of the early evening, on the horizon we can see some clouds, kinda pretty. No big deal, right?

As we get up onto the curvy mountain road we see the dense clouds above us. We’ve made this drive through a bit of fog before (in the bright morning hours, but hey?). No big deal, right?

Then we hit the fog. Solid, intense, about 8 inches of visibility. And it is pitch-fucking- black. Sheer mountain cliff on one side, oncoming traffic on the other. Turns out it may be a big fucking deal.

However, Glowie is gaily chatting in the back seat. We tell her to Be Quiet, Daddy needs to concentrate on the road. And Lord knows I am holding us on this mountain road with no visibility, with the sheer strength of my toes, curled hard into my shoes which are pressing onto the floor boards.

My husband tries to turn on the windshield wiper, cuz in his mind, THAT is the problem here. If he can just clear the windshield, he’ll be able to see.

Through clenched jaw I tell him to KEEP HIS HANDS ON THE STEERING WHEEL AND FORGET THE FUCKING WINDSHIELD WIPER.

Then I alternate by saying optimistic things like: I’m sure this will lift when we get to the summit. This can’t stay like this once we make the turn off. Right?

Unfortunately, when my husband heroically (or blindly) makes the turn off into a sheer, black wall of fog we think: Thank God, this is it. It has got to lighten up here.

And I can finally unclench my digits.

But no. We still can’t see shit. We don’t even know if we are on the right road. We don’t know if there is a sheer cliff on the left or oncoming traffic on the right.

We are buried in fog. And now fucking lost.

But we do hear something.

Sniffling.

In the back seat.

Constant, repeated sniffling.

We are tense, my husband and I. Him with the white knuckles on the steering wheel, me of course, with the clenched toes in floorboard and fingernails in dashboard.

I haven’t blinked in 10 minutes. Cuz I am keeping us alive with my will.

With every muscle in my body I have to turn my head, peeling my eyes off the invisible road, to see what the HELL is going on in the backseat.

I find Glowie softly sobbing.

Fear turns to sorrow.

“Why are you crying baby?”

Glowie: “Cuz I think we are going to die. And Mommy, I DON’T WANT TO DIE.”

And now the tension is broken. Hey, we still can’t see shit, but the kid has called out the elephant in the car.

I tell the girls to Hold Hands. I tell them everything is going to be fine. We are together. We may be in the fog, we may be lost and there may be a fucking cliff. But we are together.

And you know what? It turns out that being together as a family, is the biggest fucking deal of all.

Fuck You Alzheimers...Fuck You. A Love Story

This is a love story.

Of our best friends, the wife has early onset Alzheimers. She’s had it since her mid 50’s. She’s 61 now. And every single day, she is leaving us a little bit more. Well, a lot more.

I’ll call her Daisy, it’s not her name, but I feel protective of her. Daisy and her husband were our neighbors for many years. His name is Dennis. That is his real name. I think he is a tough guy, so I’m not afraid to use his real name.

Though they are older than we are, with grown kids, we started having a relationship of geography. (Hey, we just happened to see each other ALL the time. We lived on a dirt road and The Husband had a tractor. We had needs, you know how that goes… except instead of asking to borrow a power tool, we would ask him to get on his tractor and smooth out our driveways). That relationship grew into a friendship, and now, they are our family.

We always thought Daisy was a little “dingy”. Sweet, fun, beautiful and well…just dingy. Going over to their house for dinner was an experience in hunger, patience and manic-ness and she ran from the table to the kitchen and back, cuz she couldn’t remember what she needed. You know . . . ditzy.

But the ditziness got worse, and all of a sudden it wasn’t a charming personality quirk. After trips to the neurologist and those horrible tests where she was asked to count backwards from 100 by 7’s (hey try it . . . see if it doesn’t scare the shit out of you) the diagnosis came back: Early Onset Alzheimers.

There was shock and crying and grief. But then the worst of that passes and there is just settling into the New Normal.

You know, where you can’t have a real conversation with her anymore.

Where Dennis has lost his partner/soulmate/best friend of 20 years.

But in the beginning of this, man, Daisy was pissed. She hated the doctor for asking her questions she couldn’t answer and she hated us and her husband for talking “behind her back”.

And she felt so insulted by the diagnosis. She used to say, when she stumbled about something: I’m not a nit wit you know. I’m not a nutter. (She’s English, you know…)

“No Lovey, we don’t think that. You just have a little condition about remembering.”

Those feisty years are coming to an end. Now Daisy is so delightful. Everything makes her laugh.

My kids understand that in a restaurant when she says: I’ll take the girls to the Restroom, that THEY are the ones taking her.

We all pitch in to help her do her belt, or get her shoes on or keep her pesky zipper zipped UP.

If we tell my daughters that Daisy may not come visit us this weekend, they shout out, BUT WE CAN TAKE CARE OF HER. WE WANT OUR DAISY.

She gets lost trying to find the bathroom in her own house.

She and Dennis have some weddings and fancy events to go to this year. Dennis handed me a bag with the junkiest, most overwhelming, TON of makeup and said: Can you help me figure this out?

I told him to give me the credit card and I’d be right back. (Hey they’re our best friends. Why shouldn’t I speak to him just like I speak to my own husband.)

I went to Target and bought a few simple things. Then I labeled each brush and each compact. Then I made a list. Then I took photos.

Then I gave Dennis lessons.

It is a good thing Daisy is tough, cuz Dennis is a former Marine, do it yourself Home Remodeler, and man’s man. That was some harsh eye shadow application there, Dude!

But you know what? Daisy looked pretty. She looks better with some eyebrow and a little color.

Daisy is leaving us. And she’s not just leaving us and our kids. She’s leaving her daughters and her grandkids and most painfully, she’s leaving her husband.

You know, before Alzheimer’s had her, Daisy was never an “I love you” girl. But she is now.

And cuz she can’t remember anything, she tells me she loves me over and over and over. I kinda love that part. Cuz I love her too. And now I can say it as much as I want. (And no one questions whether or not I have been drinking too much.)

Every day Dennis and Daisy set out to have a good day. And every day I miss her. Every day I think: Fuck You Alzheimers.

I love you too, Daisy. I love you too.

Science Camp!!!!! a.k.a. Or another way to kill Mothers

Last week was Science Camp for the 5th Graders or as we called it at my house: Mommy Melt-Down Week.

Dear God, it’s only Science Camp, right? Did it really require 17 “orientation” meetings? And did I mention the ridiculousLY extensive multi-store shopping requiring two full pages of check lists? Then the packing, labeling with sharpies (although I must say, I do love a chance to use a Sharpie), sealing of the hefty bags, etc, etc, etc, etc #etc?

Let me tell you, it was stressful because my 10 year old and my 7 year old have NEVER been away from each other. So the night before, of course there was melt down. Blondie’s not mine (for once).

Blondie, is a soft, gentle, shy kid with a really big heart and a passion for math and science. Otherwise, she would have stayed home, curled in the warm softness of the maternal bosom.

Except this kid REALLY (and oddly) loves Science.

So there we are the night before with Blondie out of her mind with a full blown anxiety attack -- her little face was all crumpled with sobbing, while she was clinging to me, wailing . . . “I really want to go but I can’t be away from my family.”

So there was lots of cheerleading (Ah no . . . there was no cute outfit, rather a very old nightie from JC Pennys) with pom poms (okay, there were no pom poms either, but I do have big boobs) and she finally got to sleep at 11:00 p.m., her little body shuddering with the exhaustive sobs.

And the next morning not only was she up, but she was packed and waiting at the door a full hour before we needed to leave the house. (God, if only she had the same attitude about picking up her crap that she had about being on time.)

Massive excitement at the school, me with the video cam, sleeping bags and pillows everywhere.

In the background of course was me begging the 5th grade teachers and authorities in charge to PLEASE take the 7 year old also, I would donate LOTS of money, but sadly, they just kept shaking their heads “no”.

Lots of hugs and kisses and “I love you’s” then the buses pulled out the parking lot.

Whoo Hoo!!! Whoo Hoo!!!

I just knew this marked a huge shift in our family.

This was a milestone event that was going to move us to a greater level of independence. For all of us. #damnit

Cuz the Little Sis was going to have to learn to sleep without her Big Sis in the top bunk. And Blondie was going to have to learn to sleep without LiL Sis in the bottom bunk.

And it was all going to be good, good, good.

Turned it was weird, weird, weird.

Cuz there was no contact. No cell phones, no phone calls.

So I worried. And I thought about her. And I was excited for her. And I missed her. And I had this weird feeling in my stomach that I’ve NEVER had before . . . I hurt with longing.

By Thursday, when I wanted to call the camp my husband said: Don’t be THAT Mom. (Really? Cuz, ah, I totally AM that Mom.) But I resisted.

So that night I started counting the hours until I could see her. And when I woke up at 6 am on Friday morning, my first thought was: 7 more hours. And I counted down.

I too was at the school an hour early. (It must be a familial trait, this obsession with earliness.)

When those kids came off the bus, I was so excited. (And slightly overwhelmed by the odor, but that’s another blog . . . you know, one called: My Smelly Tween.)

There was my little, red-faced, sweaty Blondie in my arms, hugging me hard.

And I was happy. And I was whole.

And I swore I would never yell at my kids or wish they were grown up and out of the house ever again.

I would treasure every moment we had together.

Ya, that lasted about a whole effing hour.

“Hello SleepAway Camp? Do you take 7 year olds? I’ll pay an “upcharge” . . .”

#Bloggy Boot Camp - The Vlog!

Besides buying 120 bottles of vodka and Cheetos for Bloggy Boot Camp (you know, bribes to make people like me), I also ran out and bought a Flip Camera. And paid someone (no seriously, you don’t know what a techno-loser I am) to teach me how to use it.

So there I was at Bloggy in Phoenix with my new camera and no skill set. Which apparently isn’t the deterrent it should be! Then I saw that gorgeous @SugarJones and the hot, hot, hot @KadiPrescott do their presentation on Vlogging and thought: I can NEVER do this. But I did anyway.

Here’s my first Vlog.




Enjoy!!

Bloggy Boot Camp Rocks!

I am loving this Bloggy Boot Camp Shit. I don’t know if it’s the great women, or Tiffany’s amazing hair, or Heather’s sweet warmth, or maybe, the three cosmos the first night, but this has been a fucking blast.

Yes, there was the kinda scary part on the plane. You know, the part where they make you TURN OFF THE PHONE, the only source of possibly, final communications from me to the world.

OK, followed by the part where they said it’s going to be a bumpy flight and I unsnapped my seat belt to get the ativan out. (And yes, I just dry-chewed that baby.)

But I had back up: my Sweet Friend @CraftyCMC and my new GF @Mommyisdating. We were half-way to a posse, Baby.

And then that weird moment, going to the cocktail party and not quite knowing where to go or who to talk to. But you know, slap a nametag on me and it turns out, I’m good to go.

The best part? People had cameras! And I ‘m in their pictures Baby (Whether I was invited or not.)

And that fact that I had to worm myself into the group pictures? Not really an issue for me, cuz, you know, I’m Out There!

Some of the sessions on Saturday changed my life! The hilarity about Vlogging made me want to be Sugar and Kadi, well, more Sugar. Except Kadi Darlin’, now I need a Sponsor for panti-liners, cuz when an Older Mom says “I peed my pants laughing . . .”)

Loved that Spunky and Sassy AmyBHole and her Branding talk. Loved it more when she said she’d take a look at my press kit. Amy, the minute I talk with you, that puppy will be up on my website.

And Lorelie Looney Tunes! Dude – you made me cry and I wanted to run over all the rows of tables in front of me and just clutch you to my bosom. My, ah, ample bosom. (Now THAT is an earlier Blog Post.) I love you. And your big old heart.

And now, can we discuss the massive amount of undereye concealer that I need! And I didn’t even stay up late enough to jump in the pool. (I hate that – I so would have been there. But not in my clothes. I would have been naked – made my gay neighbors proud.)

Was I out there? On a scale of 1 to 10 Baby, I’m calling it a 10. (That could have the Cosmos last night.)